


Retroactive Overtime

by Dusty_Forgotten



Series: Mike Schmidt is Done with Your Shit [9]
Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: Disturbing Themes, Gen, Past Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-10 01:14:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4371497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dusty_Forgotten/pseuds/Dusty_Forgotten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the cycle of horror repeats.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Retroactive Overtime

“How was the funeral?”

You glance up, then back down, shy of eye contact. “Good... His brother was there.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Mom kept forgetting who they were there for. Tom’s putting her in a home.”

“It’s time, I guess.”

“Yeah.” You put your fist to your mouth. The silence sits.

“Sorry I couldn’t be there.” Fritz sighs.

“I get it.” you dismiss. You’d rather not talk about it.

“Really? ‘Cause I don’t.”

You nod slightly, face to fist. Everyone processes things differently, your psychiatrist says. You avoid anything pirate-themed, live in perpetual panic, while Fritz...

“They think I’m crazy.” Fritz replies conspiratorially. There’s this thing in his eyes- aside from the irritated arteries- something angry and unpredictable.

“It’s better than prison.” you suggest.

“Is it? No one listens to a friggin’ word I say, they keep trying to give me these pills...”

“I feel better on tranquilizers.” you supply quietly from your fist.

“I’m not frickin’ crazy!” You jump when his palms slap the table.

The nurses look over. You keep your voice low. “I know.”

“Try tellin’ them that!”

“If I did, they’d lock me up, too...”

Fritz only worked one night; he knows something’s messed up in Fazbear’s, and he intends to burn it to the ground. He thinks that’ll solve it. He hasn’t seen the Puppet, the things that make you wonder if your mind’s breaking under the stress, or there’s more going on at Freddy’s than you’ll ever understand.

He’s wasn’t working that day in 1987 that got the place shut down. You were.

“Did you read his obit?” Fritz speaks up. He’s calmed down, some. His mood is volatile, and you’re not sure how long it’s been like that. Didn’t know him before that job.

You pull your fist from your face, close your eyes, and relay from memory. It’s photographic. “Mike Schmidt, security guard from Aurora, Colorado, passed away Thursday in a workplace accident.”

“Are they frickin’ serious? Just a security guard!? He was doing God’s work! Nobody can do that job like he did!”

You nod understandingly, picking chips from the linoleum-topped table.

“Did it say anything else?” Fritz probes impatiently.

You dig back in your brain. “No… no, that’s it. But, the same newspaper with his obituary had a help wanted for a Fazbear’s night guard.”

“You’re friggin’ kidding!” That thing is back in his eyes. Fear, you realize when you let yourself make eye contact. It doesn’t last long. Fritz leans forward, cuffs don’t let him go far. “Kids are gonna die there this week.” He’s down again. His mood swings make you nervous. People make you nervous.

“Yeah...” You were in college full-time when you took that job. You tried going back after it was over, but… the panic hasn’t let you. “I know.”

“You’re just gonna let them?”

“What can I do?” you mumble. “We tried suing, see how that worked…” You’re both broke. He’s in a psych ward.

“You know what to do.”

“No, Fritz, I can’t-” You’re not him. You go to therapy three times a week and never turn off the radio, Fritz burned down a Chuck E. Cheese.

“I’m not tellin’ you to burn it down.”

The words are harsh, but the tone isn’t. You risk momentary eye contact. “What? Fritz, I-”

Oh, no. Oh, no no no. No, you can’t. You couldn’t. You’ll have a panic attack, you won’t make it through the week. But… that’s one less kid who won’t make it through the week.

“Jeremy, come on.”

You bite down on your knuckles. “I don’t want to die…!”

“Neither did Mike.” When you look up, there’s fear in both your eyes.

You’re crying when you call the number on the ad.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Eternal Overtime](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5190494) by [Slenderbrine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slenderbrine/pseuds/Slenderbrine)




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